


Dirty

by JadeRachelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassination, Drug Use, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRachelle/pseuds/JadeRachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim takes matters into his own hands when his hitman is out of commission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a year ago while on break at my last job. It was only meant to blow off a little steam about a fellow co worker who I desperately wanted to sod the hell off and uh... It kind of... Spiralled.

Shit, I'm a terrible person. I've become so unattached and ruthless. It has just hit me like a god awful injection straight to my brain, a pounding, hard realization. So how did this thought come about? What made me think this?

I suppose it all started with Moran. In my line of work, I tend to keep my hands clean. I don't like getting involved physically. I like to keep my distance and just watch the strings pull the players, make them dance. I like the anonymity and power. Moran, my dear ex-mercinary, my dirty man. He's the one who pushes things into action. He's the one who sticks the gun to the temple and finishes it. My Moran was supposed to head down here and rough this bitch up. My Moran was supposed to hold the weapon, make the threats, get down and dirty. My Moran was supposed to be here. But no, my Moran, is too fucking ill. Down with pneumonia, holed up in his hotel room gasping for breath with all the congestion.

A fucking war, numerous assassinations, political play, crime rings and my Moran is down and out with a goddamn cold. What the fuck kind of excuse is that? The man can handle a gun like it's extension of his arm but he can't handle a fucking sweater when he leaves the house? Useless prick.

So when a client calls, asking for a quick rough up, I send Moran.

I had this one guy, manager of a chain store, a chemist of all places, big company, gets in touch with me through a guy I know down in the pharmaceuticals business. He runs a tight shop, just this side of the law. He's an arrogant sort of guy, moneyhungry and ambitious. He says he's got a problem. An employee he has is questioning the stock, the shipping, the buyers, getting a bit too nosy.

She's a good girl, horrible oblivious personality, all for the customer service and religious. Her father is fighting cancer and she thinks she can avoid the inevitable death by throwing herself into work. But she's in the wrong work. She's staying back, she's brown nosing, she's trying to help but she's overheard some pretty suspicious stuff from out the back. She sees stock come in but it never reaches the customers. She wonders where it's going. She's just trying to please the public, asking questions, trying to figure it all out.

This guy, her boss, is selling prescription drugs to some other fella on the street, a certain kind of chef, who's passing them on with a hiked up price. He wants her out of the way. Understandable really, who wants to see their business and their side project, as well as their reputation, knocked to the ground all because of some lumpy woman with half a brain and no sense of when to stay the fuck outta other peoples business? So I offer to help him out. He's got money, he's got influence in the drug world which I personally haven't bothered to move into and god knows, I've got the solution to his pesky little problem.

I could simply send Moran around there to scout her out, send some whispers around, maybe she isn't coping with the forecoming loss of her daddy dearest, maybe she's losing it, maybe she's snapping at customers, maybe she's drinking a touch too much, maybe she's even losing a little faith. She's got a face only a mother could love and a voice that could make the partially deaf cringe. She's got no husband, no career, no hobbies. So if she did herself a mischief, who would blame her?

Moran got the address, got an overview of it all, sets everything up and waits for my orders. But goddamnit, he goes and gets himself screwed by his own immune system. Now I've already told the pharmacist that I've got it sorted, it'll be over by Wednesday night, she'll be found Thursday morning by her mother and he can stop worrying about his little street business. I can't pull out now, he's expecting results and I've never postponed anything before. Can't stop the ride now. Just gotta find a replacement before tonight.

But even when you've got the power and the cards I hold, it's pretty difficult to find a decent hitman in less than twelve hours.   
After a quick contemplation I decide, fuck it, it's been a while, I'll just do it myself. Can't be that difficult, I imagine it's like riding a bike. You can just pick up the skill at any time once you've actually mastered it.

SoI cleaned up one of my old decorative pistols, put on a suit I don't mind getting damaged, shine my shoes, comb back my hair and call up Moran.

"Still coughing up those filthy lungs of yours?" I say as I slot the gun into the holster under my arm.

He sniffs and tells me to shove it.

I let him know that I'm doing the job and I'm taking away his minibar privileges for a week before hanging up and taking a look in the mirror.

As far as humans go, I'm not bad. In casual attire I look weedy, weak, pallid and whiney. But a suit does wonders. Sure, nothing can be done about my somewhat flat profile but I tend to face things front on, both figuratively and literally, so no one ever notices my lack of points. I pop a piece of gum into my mouth and leave the flat. No use standing around admiring myself when I can walk out that door and have the general public do it for me.

The mark resides in the shitty area of town, down by a station opposite a fish and chip shop. I stand in front of the tiny apartments and hold my breath. The stink of oil and seafood mix fetidly with the stench of the underachieving scum that call this brick monstrosity their home.

It's ten to eleven so I better get moving. From Morans notes I know that the family are in bed by ten every night. The woman in question tends to lay awake for around half an hour before nodding off into a pretty deep sleep. The hall is dark and I take the stairs rather than the grimy elevator up to apartment 9B.

I pick the lock, quiet as the wind, and let myself in. The apartment smells like sweat and cheap floral air freshener. I can hear nothing but the trains passing near by. The kitchen is to my right, sofas infront of me, hall leading to bedrooms on the left. I head to the hall and stop off in the bathroom. There's a cupboard above the sink where they keep the rathers medications. It's like a bloody chemist in there; aspirin, paracetamol, codeine, ibuprofen, comfortarol, panafen, sandoz brands, oxycodone and right at the top is what I'm looking for. A box of disposable syringes next to a small box of opiate gold.

Oh this is just too easy.

The minimum lethal dose of this particular poppy based pain killer is 200mg for an ordinary person, 60 if you happen to be hypersensitive, 350 if you're an addict. Thank christ there's about 520mg left, more than enough.

I take out one needle and load it up with 55mg. This will be the first hit, the experimentation. The next is filled to 80 and the last is loaded with another 150. That totals 285mg of sweet opium hit, enough to kill any regular person.

I grab the measured doses and head out to the hall again.

This isn't even going to be a challenge.

I find her room, last on the left, there's a bloody plaque on the door in pale pink with her name on it. Pathetic. I push the door open, doesn't even creak.

The room reeks of hairspray, stale perfume and dirt. I hold my handkerchief over my nose, god forbid some kind of disgusting spore ends up in my body. I slip over the bed, the bulk of the nosey girl is under the restitched blanket cover, her dark skin only visible on her face, crowned with black wavy, frizzed hair.

I stand over her, deep sleeper or not, I'm not risking her waking if I touch her.

I ready the first syringe, the prick might wake her but the fast acting suppressant will hit fast, thank christ for intravenous insertion.

I push the covers down, she doesn't stir. I don't even bother tapping and raising a vein, she's nïave, she wouldn't be expected to know what to do. I force the prick into her inner elbow, she starts but before she can do anything but twitch away I've pushed the lever down and the liquid is going, going, gone, down into her flesh. She makes a snorting kind of sound, jerking awake but almost immediately, I see her gasp and shudder. The hit has reached her brain. I can see her sinking down into pleasant oblivion. I can nearly smell the euphoric nothingness taking over her.

I give her three minutes, the highest point will have got to her, her breathing is slowing back down, her stomach starting to turn, her limbs growing heavy. Four more minutes and I jab the second one in. That's 135mg down. Her breathing is nearly impossible to detect. She's probably having a great time in her mind, all euphoria, numbness, peace. I stand back and watch her head loll on the pillow, mouth slack, a disgusting trickle of spittle rolling down her chin. I wait. I stand beside her, hands in my pockets, used needles thrown down on the bed and sigh. This is way too easy.

She's starting to twitch again, her hands trying to clench, her jaw tightening. I inject the last dose into her other arm and leave the needle in, drooping, barely stuck in her sticky skin, wobbling precariously. I stare down at her and see her stomach give up. I see her breath stop. She's gone. And my god, that's fucking foul. The smell of her stomach contents adds to the mix of less than pleasant scents in the room.

I step back and observe the great mess before me.

Disgusting.

That was so fucking easy.

And now I'm stood here, a dead woman, an innocent, that I finished with my own hands. And I don't even give a fuck.  
I feel no guilt. I just don't care. I was right about picking it up like riding a bike. No sweat, no nerves, no shakes. This was piss easy.

I'm a murderer all over again and I'm not even bothered.

So yes, I am a terrible person. I have no heart, no guilt, no emotions. I'm a horrible, unattached, cold man. Ahhh but fuck it.  
Ain't nothin' but a thing, just a job. And damn, I do it well.


End file.
